


My Skin is Rough (It Can Be Cleansed)

by fightingthecage



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathing/Washing, Blowjobs, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, M/M, Shower Sex, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-12 17:22:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4488168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingthecage/pseuds/fightingthecage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt:</p><p>Any and all shower/bath porn (I'd also be happy for modern AU with maybe added gym work-out here? :D Just - wet skin and the intimacy of washing another would make me really happy)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> Note I: this is a bastardisation of College AU hell - same background, but I'm pretty damn sure the characters will act differently in the main fic.
> 
> Note II: I'm so sorry about all of this. I'll make it up to you.

 

 

_April_

 

Javert’s never been the type to think ‘this isn’t fair’. It’s a waste of time, it’s pathetic, and only self-pitying losers who haven’t got the guts to fix things for themselves give in to the urge to say it.

Still. This isn’t fair.

Valjean had new gym equipment put into the apartment after Christmas. He said it wasn’t a reaction to being unable to work out for months, and no one had pointed out what bullshit that was because, well, it’s Valjean. They let him have what works, because he needs it. So there’s a new leg press, and a bar set into the wall for chin ups – pointless; Valjean can lift about five times his own body weight – and a bigger bench for shoulder work because hey, what’s the point of only lifting from your back when you can do it at an incline too?

Javert wants to click his tongue and say it’s too much, that the guy’s going to hurt himself if he keeps this up. But it’s none of his business. He doesn’t live at the apartment, he just visits - and while he and Valjean have come pretty far, they’re not together. They just…share space sometimes, usually in silence. There’s a few light touches in chaste places, except nothing’s chaste to Javert these days, not when he wants him so bad he can taste the need on the back of his tongue. But he accepts what he’s given and he’ll never, ever ask for more. Not after everything that happened.

By group agreement – that is himself, Father Charles, Combeferre acting as unofficial doctor, and the therapist they practically had to blackmail Valjean into seeing – the guy takes one day off a week. He was allowed to choose which one, and after spending an uncomfortable few minutes trying to wrangle his way out of it, came up with Saturday. Monday to Friday are for studying, and the factory. Sunday is church and every good cause and charity case he can fit into twenty four hours. So, Saturday is supposed to be spent doing things just for him. Whatever he wants, and he’s not allowed to feel guilty about it. Everyone decided he’d picked a good day, because new movies come out on Friday so he can go to a mall to catch one, eat popcorn and ice cream, shop, take a walk, eat in an actual restaurant if he wants…Valjean had listened to these suggestions, and nodded, and smiled.

He spends Saturdays working out. And that’s why none of this is fair, because Javert finishes his volunteer shift at the security office at lunchtime, and usually heads over to Valjean’s for the afternoon. Just like four years ago, it’s good to have a quiet place to study, and Javert has done a lot of dumb things in the last few years but even he’s not stupid enough to turn away time spent alone with Jean Valjean. Never mind that it’s torture. Never mind that it haunts him through the entire week that follows; is the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up and the last thing he sees at night. He sees it for a long time at night. Seriously long. If it were possible to be tired of jerking off, he would be.

And so he’s here on the couch, on a stifling Saturday afternoon, with sun pouring through the huge glass arches along the wall and the heating cranked up near to full. Valjean needs to sweat as much crap out as possible, and Javert can’t help but watch, and agonise, all the while pretending to read a textbook on criminality and the ways it can be subverted to appear innocuous. He wishes it were a bigger book. He’s not entirely sure it’s hiding his erection.

 

*

 

Javert’s not speaking again. Valjean watches him while benching, making sure he’s not caught at it. He isn’t concerned about the silence the way he used to be; this is very different from the sullen withdrawal after he put a rope around his neck, but it’s also different from the self-contained, quiet-by-choice guy he knew before all that shit happened. He can’t put his finger on what’s different. It’s like Javert wants to speak, but just doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe he’s wrong, and he just doesn’t have anything to say anymore. That’s OK, if it’s right. One of the things he appreciates most about Javert is that he doesn’t feel the need to talk endlessly. They can just be together quietly, and it’s…he’s been trying to find the right word for weeks, now. Not soothing, exactly. Not quite grounding either, because you can’t ground yourself in a man who hasn’t yet formed a new identity for himself. And no one could describe Javert as soothing, because he’s a man made entirely of rough angles and bits that hurt. Even the soft parts of him have grown thorns. Maybe secure is the closest description, because memories won’t let him go with safe either. Javert’s like a boat on rough sea, one he’s tethered to on a long rope. He can swim for a while, and float for a while, but when he feels like he might go under he gets reeled in, and can lie down away from the waves until he’s collected himself again. The boat might leak a bit, and threaten to capsize every now and again – but it doesn’t go away. Somewhere, somehow, he’s come to rely on it being there.

He sets the barbell back on its stand, and sits up to take a drink. Javert’s eyes flick up to meet his from where he’s sitting on the sofa. He’s been engrossed in that book for hours, and it doesn’t look like much fun judging by the concentration on his face.

‘Hey. You OK?’

Again, no words. Javert just nods, and returns his attention to his page. He looks a bit uncomfortable, and Valjean feels a slight stab of guilt. It probably is too hot in here, but he’s only got a couple of sets of chin-ups to do. He’ll turn the heat down after that.

 

*

 

The agony is partly self-inflicted. He could stay away on Saturdays, or come later. The rest of it comes from Valjean’s messed-up brain chemistry, or what was done to him, or both, because it means he suffers badly from sensory overload. Part of which means he doesn’t like the restriction of clothes, doesn’t like anything in constant contact with his legs. He’s OK when he’s out and distracted. But when he’s alone, in bed, working out, he never wears more than he has to. It’s torture, all of it. Case in point: the very rare times they share a bed. Case in extra-painful point: Valjean on display right now, wearing nothing but an obscenely short pair of shorts.

The bed should be worse, but it isn’t. It doesn’t happen very often, and at least he gets to feel him against his back. It’s reassuring in more ways than one; just to be near him, and also because it proves that it’s not only him that suffers. Every time it’s happened – three times, that’s all since Christmas – he wakes up knowing that at least one part of Valjean wants it like he does. Javert’s never allowed to touch the cock that presses against his butt in the night, but knowing it’s there does wonders for his soul. And last time, three weeks ago, a hand wandered over his hip and finally gave him some relief. They don’t talk about it. What’s there to say? He’s done begging the man to fuck him, because it’s never brought anything but pain before. Now the pleading is only in his head, while he’s reading, or in class, or at work, or on all fours on his bed, biting his pillow with his ass in the air, pulling frantically at his never-satisfied dick.

But no, this is worse. Because Valjean’s fucking beautiful, and covered in sweat, and those muscles are enough to drive anyone out of their mind. And because the guilt these Saturday afternoons bring shames him into never doing a thing about it. Another one of the problems is, he knows he’s an out-and-out bottom. On every other day of the week, his dreams consist of himself being bent over something, held down, tied up, being fucked raw while he begs for it harder, and faster, and deeper, until he loses everything about himself in the sensation. He knows he’d sub for Valjean in a heartbeat. He’d kneel at his feet and follow every command gifted to him if Valjean was the type of guy who’d want that, or ever ask for it. He’ll never say it out loud, because it’s the one thing that’ll ensure he never gets to touch the man again. He can’t think of much Valjean would like less. And he can live without it. No, the problem is Saturday afternoons, and those fucking shorts.

Valjean stands up and then sets his drink on the floor, allowing the perfect view as he stretches down, highlighting the ripples of muscle across his back and over his ribs. Sweat has made his hair curl and stick to his nape, but fluffed out the rest so it’s only too easy to imagine how soft it’d be if fingers were allowed to run through it. He’s free to watch as Valjean turns to the pull-up bar on the wall, so Javert lifts his gaze and drinks it in openly. Broad shoulders flexing as he rolls them to loosen up, the way the plains of his back dip in towards his spine, inviting a tongue to lick down the bone. The way his waist tapers in, soft hair on the dip of skin gleaming right over the elasticated waistband of the shorts that look like they belong in the eighties or something. They barely cover his butt cheeks.

Javert swallows, his mouth dry. This is the best, and the very worst, part of his week. Because when Valjean reaches up to the bar, trusting him enough to show his back to him, there’s only one fantasy in Javert’s mind. It’s something he could never do, never suggest, and will never happen. But just this one day of the week, all he wants in the world is to hook a finger into the waist of those shorts, pull the man back, and make him sit on his lap. He’d open his jeans slowly, pull out his cock, and let it slide – slowly, really slowly – up the inside of Valjean’s leg. He’d slip the head into him and make him wait, just make him feel the stretch until he was panting for more. And then he’d make him ride as slow as he could bear, let him take the whole length of him and fuck himself deep, until he was spread and begging. And he’d just sit there and make him work; slip his hand between his legs and hold his balls while Valjean went up, and down, and up, and never at any speed at all, just the slightest rub where he’d need it inside, just enough to make all those muscles hard, and straining, and popping with the need to come.

And he’d watch, and maybe stroke his back, and watch his cock get sucked inside, and – worst of all – he’d say _good boy_ , and Valjean would beg, and beg, until Javert gave in and let him rub against his palm. He’d lean forward to feel the heat of his back, breathe into his shoulder, kiss his neck, tell him he’s doing well; he’d pet him between the legs until he lost it in his shorts, and was crying with pleasure. Only then would Javert hold him close, wrap his arms around while he came inside him.

‘OK, I’m done.’

He blinks, and looks up to see Valjean standing there with his protein shake, shining all over like some angel from above. Frowning though, and looking concerned. ‘You sure you’re alright? I’m sorry, I won’t have it so hot next week.’

He shakes his head, and wets his lips. ‘It’s fine.’

‘OK. I’m just going to shower, I’ll be right out.’ 

He waits until the bedroom door’s closed before lifting the book from his lap, and gazing ruefully at the sodden crotch of his jeans. Saturday afternoons are the worst. It’s a good thing he keeps a few clothes in the spare room wardrobe but really, it’d be so much more convenient if the man would just fuck him already.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

_June_

 

 

He stares, and knows he’s staring, and can’t make himself stop. Valjean looks more embarrassed the longer it goes on, but endures as he always does. Eventually Javert shakes his head and says, ‘what?’

‘Oh come on Javert, don’t-‘

‘Sorry. Yeah. I mean yeah, of course I’ll help you. Sorry. What’s up?’

He tries to act like that moment didn’t just happen, but failure’s something he’s becoming more used to these days. All things being equal, being lost for words when Jean Valjean _asks for help_ isn’t going to break his top ten of awkward moments for this year alone.

‘I need someone to work out with.’

‘What?’ he says again, and then pretends he didn’t. ‘Why?’

Valjean looks more embarrassed. ‘I’ve hit a plateau, I think. I don’t know, it’s just not…’ Javert narrows his eyes. Valjean’s a perfectly good liar when he wants to be but the thing is, he never wants to be, and it shows.

‘So who would be the one being helped here?’

A shrug. ‘We’d both benefit.’

‘…your therapist told you to say that, didn’t he?’

‘Didn’t yours tell you you needed to exercise? Like, six months ago?’

They glare at each other for a few seconds – or Javert does anyway, while Valjean just stands with a set face. And of course he’s not the one to break first. Javert lowers his gaze, then rubs a hand roughly through his hair. ‘So what is this, homework? Help the needy again?’

‘Yes to the first, no to the last.’

‘What-‘ he breaks off, and works it out for himself. And then laughs, causing Valjean to blink in surprise. ‘Your homework was to ask for help with something.’

The lack of a nod confirms it, and Javert laughs again. Valjean’s eyebrows raise, but he can’t seem to help smiling too, after a moment.

‘Well now you’ve done it. Can I get off the hook for the actual exercise?’

‘You could. But you’d feel better for it.’ ‘

I feel fine.’

‘You don’t look fine. You look pretty pissed off when you come here and work.’

Saturday afternoons. He hates them and can’t live without them in equal measure.

‘Fine,’ he says, just because he doesn’t want that probed too deeply. ‘Fine, I’ll work out with you. But I don’t want to get stacked like you are. I want to stay fast.’

Cops do better when they can move quickly. Valjean just smiles – Javert’s stomach flips over – and nods. ‘Sure thing. Cardio then, with lighter weights and longer reps. No problem.’

‘No problem.’

Valjean disappears to find some shorts to lend him. Javert hides in the spare room on the pretext of finding his old sneakers. It’s bad enough watching the guy work out from a distance – now he has to join in? And not touch? This isn’t fair, and is going to be _really_ embarrassing.

 

*

 

Valjean watches Javert while pretending he isn’t. It’s an art he’s perfected by now. The guy never actually objects, but he’ll make a sarcastic remark and frankly, Valjean can do without that in his life. He knows it’s just because it embarrasses him to be looked at with any kind of scrutiny, and a sharp tongue is his first line of defence. Javert, he thinks – he hopes – never means to hurt, but that isn’t the same as it never happening.

He’d like to tell him he’s doing well. Three weeks into training together and the guy’s knocking out close to eight mile runs at a decent clip. He starts puffing around five, but he doesn’t give in. He goes and goes until he’s drenched and starting to wobble on the machine, and even then he doesn’t want to quit until he hits a round number. Long legs help with distance, and of course he used to ride his bike everywhere so it’s not like he’s unused to exercise. But it’s been a while since he did much of anything at all, so it’s impressive.

He’d also like to tell him he looks good. The words have been on his tongue a few times, but never quite make it out. It’s not that Valjean’s not good at giving compliments, but they’re usually of the ‘good job’ variety at work, and ‘thanks for all your effort’ at the annual Christmas party. They’re benign and more pertinently, they’re not to Javert. He’s not sure how the guy would take them, or whether he’d believe him, or think there’s some hidden agenda. He might think Valjean was trying to get him into bed, which would make him wonder…well, is he?

Maybe he is. He spends a lot of time thinking about the last time Javert stayed over. Given what’s happened with them in the past, the actual touching was pretty tame. But the intimacy of it…Valjean stops with the leg press to put some more weight on, because distraction from his returning libido is just as important as distraction from everything else in his life. It’s getting harder to ignore, even though nothing’s ever said. That’s part of the problem. Nothing needs to be said. It’s just _there_ , and he’s starting to forget why it’s so important to resist. But Javert needs to be whole again before getting into a relationship that could never be anything but heavy. They can’t just date and pretend it’s casual, because they haven’t ever been casual. It’s been easy to tell himself that they both need time, but now months have passed and they’re in this grey area, and he keeps looking for signposts to tell him it’s OK to proceed, or that he should back up a while longer. Or even stop, though he’s not sure that’s an option anymore.

That last time though. That was a signpost, it had to be. Because Javert had been ready to leave, bag zipped up and thrown over his shoulder. It had been he, Valjean, who’d been in trouble that day, unable to calm his thoughts or stop his fist clenching all through dinner. He has no idea what triggered him, but knowing wouldn’t have helped. It was what it was. And Javert had noticed. He’d slipped his bag to the floor and walked up to him, and stopped just outside his personal space. And all he’d said was, ‘can I stay?’ and he’d said it in such a way to make it sound like it was him who didn’t want to be left on his own. He’d made it easy to nod, and feel relief. And when they went to bed, he didn’t make it weird by asking permission or checking he was OK. He’d just walked into the main bedroom, undressed, and lay down. He’d left enough space for an arm to be slid underneath him, and then pressed back against his chest. He hadn’t said a word, but he knew what was needed. He’d given him the comfort of sleep, and – Valjean flushes a little here, a different kind of heat from exercise. Gratitude had made him hard even as he lay down behind him. He can’t blame the guy for thinking he’d wanted to fuck him, because he had wanted to. When he’d woken up in the night with hair tickling his nose and his body warm against him, he’d lain for an hour knowing that if he just slid his leg between Javert’s to open him up, rolled him a little, asked permission with a kiss on his neck, it would have been granted. They could have made love with no words needed, and it would have been good. It would’ve been great.

But it might not have been right. That’s what he wrestles with, even more than with his ever-growing desire to have him at all. Gratitude is not a good reason to have sex with anyone, let alone someone who already has reason not to trust him. And it wasn’t gratitude that made him slip his hand between Javert’s legs that night, and rub him off in the dark. Maybe that’s what he thinks it was, and that’s why he hasn’t said anything. Maybe he thinks it was a thank you gift for knowing he needed him to stay. It wasn’t. He did it because he wanted to hear the sound he’d make. He wanted to know if he’d strain against him when he came, or just relax and let it out gently. He wanted to pleasure him for no other reason than they want each other, and it would feel good. So he did, and hasn’t felt anything but guilt since. They should have talked about it in the morning. He hasn’t even told his therapist. He’s heard time and again that it’s OK to want things, but he can’t seem to believe it no matter what he does. How can someone want another person? It seems possessive even in thought. He accepts it’s a thing that happens; he accepts he wants Javert, and he knows Javert wants him. But having that and feeling OK about it? No, that’s something far out of reach.

He looks over to the treadmill. Javert’s gasping, sweat openly running down his neck and soaking into the collar of his T-shirt. He’s still so thin, so tall, but the muscles in his legs are plainly visible as he moves. Everything about him is long and lean, and if he hit the weights he’d quickly become formidable. His shoulders are naturally broad, and if he filled his chest out he’d probably stop a criminal in their tracks just by standing and glaring at them. But at the moment, there’s still an unbearable air of frailty to him, like he might break if pressure was applied in the right place. Maybe it’s all in his head, maybe not, but he knows he can’t risk finding out too soon.

‘If you tape me, you’ll be able to watch when I’m not here.’

‘…sorry.’

He turns back to his weights, guilty once more. Maybe he’s imagining the unspoken _it’d be fair revenge_ that seems like it belonged at the end of that sentence. He’s definitely imagining the hint of invitation in the guy’s tone, like he really wouldn’t mind if he did. Christ. Why isn’t there a manual for this sort of thing? It’d be so much more convenient.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

_September_

 

‘Hey. Would you mind spotting for me?’

Javert puts down his dumbbells and looks doubtfully at the bar above Valjean’s head. It is impossibly heavy. Valjean, lying underneath it, is impossibly beautiful. Javert feels something twitch in his gut, low and guilty.

‘There’s no way I can hold that. If you drop it, it’ll just drag me down with it.’

Valjean smiles, nothing but trust on his face.

‘You don’t need to hold it. If I can’t get it all the way back up, you just need to help a little.’

He wants to say no, because he doesn’t want to be responsible for keeping Valjean safe. Not from giant barbells, anyway. But he hasn’t learned the art of refusing the guy, and is more OK with that than he’d like.

So he nods, and stands, feeling the ache of ten miles in his legs and the chewing need of four years without satisfaction in his belly. It feels wrong to stand over Valjean and look down at him when he’s prone. He’s spent a lot of time making sure not to do that.

‘You got it?’

The bar’s so heavy, he wouldn’t be able to get it an inch off the ground. But Valjean nods, chalked fingers curled around the silver grip, sweat shining off the perfect mounds of his straining pecs. Javert tries not to swallow as he’s stabbed through again, and eases his hands away. All he can do is watch, stand guard, as Valjean takes a breath in and lets the weight down to his chest. He holds it there a moment, his body tensed and primed, and then blows his cheeks out and pushes it back up.

Javert’s head goes light. Those _fucking_ abs. They’re even more defined after months of obsessive training, and as the pressure increases, each one, eight perfect rectangles, stand up in a neat pack on Valjean’s belly. Javert’s mouth sags in helpless want. The waistband of Valjean’s shorts pulls down as he moves, revealing the lines of muscle forming a wide V at his hips, pointing the way to the place he dreams of getting his mouth back on. He stares, then forces himself to stop, but the only other things to look at are the popped mountains of his biceps, the sweat-slicked shoulders that tremble with effort, the tendons standing out in the hands he’d give anything to feel on him. The bar goes down but brings him no relief, because he knows Valjean will only be straining harder the longer he keeps at it. Javert can’t help imagining this body tensed and hard as it rides him from behind; can’t help wanting to walk around and just move those tiny shorts a few small inches; can’t help wanting to kneel down and kiss his cock while Valjean pumps and pushes, and comes all over his own achingly perfect body.

The bar sets down on its rest. Valjean closes his eyes and counts out his minute’s rest, and Javert can only look at him, his prick filling between his legs, his heartbeat thumping through his blood. This is what he was afraid of. It’s not like the man hasn’t seen him aroused before, but he wishes he had more control over it. He wishes everything about him wasn’t pathetic and full of need, and desperate to be touched. But if that happened it would mean he wouldn’t want Valjean anymore, and the idea of it makes him sick. It makes him sick to define himself by another person too, but he doesn’t know how to get free. He can only wallow in this and pray for eventual deliverance in whatever form it might come.

‘Go again?’

He nods, and helps put the bar back in Valjean’s hands. He knows his face is red, and only gets more so when Valjean’s eyes flick up to him, and then stutter on the way back down. There’s no way to hide his erection from this position, and all he can do is hope it won’t make him uncomfortable. It might be too late, if the way he keeps looking at it is anything to go by.

Up, and down. So slow, so deliberate. Up, and down, and Valjean has his eyes closed now and his mouth open, his body trying desperately not to arch under the strain. Good form is important to get maximum benefit; control is important, self-discipline, mastering yourself when all you want is to reach the end. Javert finds himself holding his breath, his cheeks on fire, his fingers twitching gently at his side. He’s sure he looks steady on the outside, hard-on notwithstanding. On the inside, he’s pulling his cock out, rubbing, watching Valjean’s abs tense and relax, jerking slowly as the man grunts underneath him and works to his own end. In his mind, he comes in a long stream over Valjean’s chest, dripping down onto his face.

‘Javert?’

‘…yeah?’

‘Could you support this a second?’

Valjean’s arms aren’t shaking as they hold the bar up. His elbows are locked out, so he’s probably safe. Javert nods and puts his hands on it, shame burning him from the inside out. Valjean doesn’t let go. He eases it back until its resting, and then just lies there panting, looking up at him. Looking at the bulge in his shorts, almost thoughtful, almost _almost_ hungry. So Javert doesn’t let go. He just waits, his chest pulling like he’s the one doing the work, locked in the man’s gaze.

‘We’re going to have to do something about it.’

There’s no obvious response to that, but he’s not going to pretend he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He nods, searching for words.

‘What do you-?’

‘I don’t know. Anything. Do anything.’

It comes out more pathetic than he intended, too fast, too high-pitched. Valjean just looks at him. His insides turn to liquid, and the air seems to be pressing in on all sides. But for the longest time, neither of them move. There’s a precipice here, and throwing themselves off the edge is something neither will be able to come back from. There’s nowhere to go but down.

But they’d fall together. The crash will still come, but the drop will be worth all the pain in the world.

 

*

 

He’s not sure why today’s different. Maybe because they got finals out of the way, and then graduation, and there’s none of that left to worry about. Maybe because Javert’s quit his job and will be starting at the academy in two days. Maybe a whole lot of things, but none of them explain why, today, he can’t stand looking at the guy’s need a second longer. Why he can’t resist his own. There’s no explanation for it, other than maybe it’s _enough_ ; Javert’s proved he’s not going anywhere, he’s more like his old self, this attraction is no longer about holding on to a stable influence after he fell apart. It’s just attraction. Whether either one of them deserve it, there it is. Maybe they just deserve each other.

He lets go of the bar with one hand. Javert doesn’t move. Valjean wets dry lips and can’t think of what to say to move this on. He’s always preferred action, but he doesn’t know which one is best.

His eyes flick down. The lump in Javert’s shorts is disarmingly large, not that that’s a surprise. He can remember the feel of it in his palm a few months ago, and last year when he’d pinned him to the floor and made him come almost from that alone.

‘Valjean.’

A quiet word, unmistakably a plea. He runs his tongue over his lips again, and lifts himself onto one elbow, his head still under the barbell. He doesn’t need to sit up properly to do this, to glance up at Javert’s face and then down his body; he doesn’t need to move far to stretch his neck out and nuzzle gently between his legs. He hears Javert’s breath hitch and looks up again, not moving back, nylon shorts slippery against his cheek.

Javert looks in pain. His fingers are white where they grip the bar, and his teeth are fixed in his lower lip. Valjean holds his gaze and tries to smile, and then pushes against him again, his lips pressing to the firm lump still tightly encased.

‘I’m-‘

‘What?’

‘…don’t know.’

Valjean closes his eyes, nudges into him. Then he feels a bit stupid for it, too forward, and draws back. When he looks up again, Javert has disappointment written all over his face, or maybe it’s hope, or…he doesn’t know. Valjean swallows and sits up, a dull ache starting to thrum through the nerves of his inner thighs. He just sits, his back to Javert and feeling weird about it for the first time in months. When he glances behind, the man looks like he knows he’s done something wrong, and Valjean can’t stand it because he hasn’t done anything at all, he’s been perfect, he hasn’t pushed once since the debacle at Christmas. He hasn’t asked, or touched without permission, or given any sign of impatience. He’s just waited, and for longer than anyone sane would have done.

Valjean stands up, and walks the few steps that feel like a mile. Like slow motion, and he has time to see the quiet despair turn to surprise, and then tentative hope. And then they’re an inch apart, so close he can feel the heat of the man through his clothes. They stand, Javert trying not to fidget, Valjean marvelling again at those beautiful eyes. They always floor him when he gets this close.

‘We should…I don’t know either. Talk about it, I guess.’

Javert doesn’t move for a few seconds. Then he shakes his head slowly, deliberately. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. There’s no need.’

‘There is. There-‘

He cuts off when Javert puts his hand on his waist. Shock makes him blink, and he waits for the inevitable reflex retreat. It doesn’t come. Heat flares under his skin instead, and a breath drops out of him. Something between his legs pulls tight.

‘Just let me touch you.’

Javert mutters it like he’s embarrassed.

‘You don’t have to do anything to me.’

Words are lost again as his brain brakes, and tries to U-turn into a response. Does he think he doesn’t want to touch him? He’d really just give and expect nothing back? He’d hope his response to that is on his face, but Javert wouldn’t see it anyway. He’s looking at the floor and he’s ashamed, and that’s not acceptable.

Valjean extends his hand slowly, and cups him between the legs. Javert goes still – surprise? Arousal? – and Valjean just holds for a minute, hoping he’ll look up. But he doesn’t so he starts to rub, slow and soft, watching the colour deepen on his cheeks. Javert’s hand is not tight on his waist, but it starts to flex ever so slightly, fingers slipping in the sweat on his skin.

‘You don’t have to.’ It’s another quiet mumble.

‘I want to.’

He can feel the _why_ that isn’t said, and his heart curls up in his chest. It kills him when this happens. When all the bravado is gone, Javert’s spikes pull back in; they turn on him in these moments, pierce him inside, leaving his shell soft and open. Well, no one’s going to damage him this time. He takes half a step in, lowers his head, tilts it, stretches up to press their lips together. It’s barely a touch, but he feels the air go out of the guy and he waits, and waits, until _there_ , Javert leans forward to kiss again. They lock this time and time melts away; heads raise, a hint of tongue, and then Javert’s moaning quietly into his mouth and sliding his hand up his chest, canting his hips forward into the touch. When it breaks they stay together, lips a breath apart, tasting each other’s air.

‘You don’t get it.’

‘What don’t I get?’

Javert can’t stop his moans, but his words are pained for a different reason. His left hand is gentle torment on Valjean’s shoulder, his right hovering over what he seems to be afraid to touch.

‘I think bad things, Valjean. I can’t help it. I’m sorry.’

A confession, then. Valjean kisses his bottom lip, touches his tongue to it, would like to devour his mouth whole. The heel of his hand presses into the base of Javert’s cock, and he catches his cry, prepared to catch his body if he falls.

‘You don’t know how I want you.’

‘I do. You’ve said.’

‘No, I…oh _fuck_ , ah…’

Valjean doesn’t stop, but goes back to the easy rub. Soft material over that rigid column, sliding up and down, the rustling of cloth the only thing to break their heavy breathing.

‘I think of things. Bad things.’

‘Everybody thinks bad things.’

Javert’s mouth presses to his and then stays, so the words come against his lips.

‘I think of you tying me up. Holding me down. Taking me hard. Stuff I know you won’t do.’

Valjean squeezes his fingers up the lump, finds the head and presses against it, gives a gentle twist, feels Javert teetering on the brink. There’s another cry, and Javert finally puts his hand to Valjean’s shorts, closing tight around his prick. Valjean sucks air in as pleasure swarms out from under the grip, and Javert’s eyes go wide. He pulls back, watching something Valjean can’t see, and as he breathes out again, fast and ragged, Javert starts to push hard against the fingers on him, thrusting into the touch. Valjean barely has time to recognise how close he is; the hand on his shoulder digs in tight, and Javert stiffens all over as he lets go in his shorts, hard against Valjean’s hand, soaking through the cloth in half a second. It’s sticky and warm, lets a tang of salt into the air, and Valjean feels his skin break out into bumps at the pleasure washing over his senses.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For coming, or for wanting sex?’

Valjean kisses him before he can answer, deep and hungry, acutely aware there’s a hand on his cock. It feels weird in all the best ways. Javert sinks into it like he doesn’t care if he’ll ever come up again, one arm hooking gently around Valjean’s neck. When their mouths break apart, he rests their foreheads together, eyes down like he’s submitting to some higher judgement.

‘I think about fucking you.’

He couldn’t sound more beaten if he tried. Valjean smiles just a little, takes his wet palm away and slides his arms around Javert’s waist. They stand, leaning against each other, Valjean with his lips pressed to Javert’s neck. The skin is smooth; if he raised his mouth half an inch, it would not be. The scar is something they haven’t touched on. Not yet.

‘I think about that too.’

Javert sags in his arms. Valjean closes his eyes. Yes, he’s thought about that. Because there are days when he’s wondered, if they do this, if they start a relationship, whether there would also be times when Javert realised the strength that’s in him. Whether he’d use it like he did at Christmas, when he couldn’t hear anything outside his own pain. Yes, of course he’s thought about it. But if Javert’s strong enough to confess, he, Valjean, is not sure he can do the same. If he carries that doubt, it’s his own problem. He’s not going to crush the man with his own unfounded fear.

‘I need a shower,’ he says instead. ‘Come with me.’

And Javert nods, turns his head, sucks a tiny kiss into his shoulder to agree. Valjean’s legs go weak, and he pushes the darkness away. Whatever happens will happen, and he’ll deal with it then. The only thing he can do is trust the man, because without that, he is nothing.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Javert follows Valjean through the apartment, stunned into silence by this turn of events, his skin singing with recent climax. The lassitude that normally follows orgasm hasn’t arrived, probably because he’s pretty sure they’re not done. His fingers itch to reach out to Valjean, just to touch him and know this is real, but the memory of what he’s just said stops him. He was never going to tell him that. He’d told himself time and again that Valjean could never know that one painful fantasy, that he had to keep it locked away to spare the man any kind of nerves. But he hadn’t been able to stop it, because Valjean deserves to know what sort of man he’s getting involved with, if he didn’t already. That even after everything that’s been revealed between them, and the consequences of those words, there are still depths of depravity in him that he can’t resist. He knows he’ll never ask permission to act on it, and now that it’s out in the open, isn’t sure he really wants to anyway. Maybe it was so enticing because it had to stay hidden. Or maybe it just doesn’t compare to the reality of this moment right here, walking with Valjean to go and take a shower. And then, he fervently hopes, share a bed. Dear God, let that be what’s about to happen.

Valjean stops in the kitchen to take water out of the fridge. He drinks deeply, and Javert is left to stare all over again when he tilts it too high, and water spills down his chin, drips off his jaw and onto his chest. He almost moves to lick it away, a reflex action borne of pure want, but stifles the urge at the last second. Valjean just wipes it away with a jerk of his hand like such an action is nothing, like the shining trail in its wake isn’t an invitation for a mouth to lick him clean.

He offers the bottle over and Javert takes it, almost choking as he drinks because Valjean puts his hands on his hips and draws his shorts down an inch or two.

‘You can put these in the washer,’ he says, and Javert nods, and doesn’t move, and lets himself be undressed right there in the kitchen. His shorts and briefs are sodden, his T-shirt glued to his chest and back, but Valjean doesn’t seem to care. He just eases them off him and then kisses him again, so gently it hurts. A tendril of renewed desire curls in his gut, and maybe it’s that which gives him the courage to stop Valjean moving away.

‘Are you going to take yours off?’

He’s sure he’s said the wrong thing at once, because Valjean probably wants to undress at his own speed. But before he can say sorry, the guy’s toeing off his sneakers, stripping socks, easing his own shorts down over his still-hard cock. Javert’s mouth goes dry again, and he drinks to stop himself looking. How long has he spent dreaming of that inside him? Now it might actually happen and most of him wants to turn around and bend over where he is, while a small part sits nervously in his stomach and wonders how much it’s going to hurt. He’s not afraid of pain and will never shy away from it, but that doesn’t mean he welcomes it with open arms. Not all the time, anyway. It has happened a few times.

'You don't need to be nervous. It's just a shower.’

Their eyes meet. Valjean has the grace to look like he's knows he's been caught in a lie. He's about to say something, and Javert wills him to shut up because words are only going to ruin it. Maybe it shows because Valjean closes his mouth, and smiles again, and leads on towards the bathroom. Javert watches his ass as he follows, traces the lines of muscle on his back that are visible even when relaxed. The man's torso is shaped like an inverted triangle these days, and not for the first time, he wonders where it's going to end. How much stronger can a man get? Sometimes his better side wins out and he almost tells the man to stop, that making his body a fortress isn't going to help him with the things locked inside it. But most times he just looks, and dreams about what it'll taste like under his tongue.

‘Javert?’

‘What?’

‘You’re staring.’

‘Sorry.’

Valjean sighs a little, but it sounds amused.

‘You don’t have to be sorry. But just…relax, I guess. I know that sounds stupid coming from me, but-‘ he turns suddenly; Javert comes to a halt when hands land on his chest, and stands dumb while he’s kissed.

‘OK? You don’t have to watch me all the time. You can touch, if you just wait a few seconds.’

He nods, probably a bit too quickly because Valjean laughs a little, and his fingertips curl against his chest. Anticipation rears through him, and he almost asks if they can just have the sex and then shower afterwards. But Valjean is gone, taking his touch with him, and maybe it’s good he didn’t say it. He may be used to making a fool of himself around the man, but he doesn’t have to invite opportunities.

The shower in Valjean's bathroom is a huge walk-in, with a bench along one wall, a shower head the size of a dinner plate hanging from the ceiling, and jets that shoot out from all sides with spray or full-force water, depending on what you want. Javert's only ever used it once, and he had made a remark about its opulence that made Valjean go red. He'd muttered something about it being there when he bought the place, and Javert had felt like a cunt for the rest of the week. He makes sure not to say anything now and eyes the bath instead, a likewise enormous thing that would fit both of them if they lay together. And they would, wouldn't they? He's about to suggest it when Valjean pulls open the shower door and the chance is lost. He files it away in his mind, though. If they can manage to go a week without pulling this thing to pieces, he'll bring it up. Much as he dreams about being pinned underneath the guy, he spends just as much time jerking it to the idea of simply having his hands on his body. It _would_ be another thing that makes the guy nervous, but he's hung on to the memory of how all this started - Valjean kissing him one day and then sitting in his bed the next, letting Javert stroke his abs. Maybe it doesn’t make him nervous enough to say no. And he did just say he could touch him, so-

‘You coming?’

Again, the urge to speak out of turn, and say _will be soon_. Again, he stops himself and steps through the door. Valjean closes it behind them, and then…there they are. The two of them, not far enough in to be under the water, just looking at each other. Javert can’t tell what Valjean’s thinking, he’s always been useless at it. But he knows he has no idea how to move this along, for all that he’s been the one to grab first, ask questions later in the past.

‘I’ve only got one sponge,’ Valjean says, but then seems to seize on something. ‘No, wait! I’ve got spares, I’ll just go and-‘

He’s got the door half open before Javert puts his hand on his waist.

‘Don’t.’

Valjean quiets under his touch. Javert has time to marvel at it, the way this muscle bulges before falling away to his hip bone, and then goes still simply because he asked it to. It must be what calming a horse or something is like – all this pent-up energy and power, and the thrill of it responding to commands. Not that that was a command. He is firm with himself on this. He will never command Valjean. He takes a small step instead, and then another, and then slides his hand onto the man’s abdomen as he moves into his side. Valjean’s cock isn’t rigid but it’s not soft either, and Javert watches it twitch and then start to rise as he puts his lips to his shoulder.

‘You didn’t let me get you off.’

‘I – well, there’s time.’

‘Like now.’

‘Yeah, but-‘

Valjean turns, but Javert keeps his hand on him so it slides around to his hip. They’re face to face, and there’s a cock brushing his thigh, and if this takes much longer he’s going to drop his knees and beg, he knows it.

‘I smell. So do you. Lets just clean up, and then-‘

Valjean shrugs a shoulder, and something clicks in Javert’s mind.

‘Forget it, Valjean.’

‘What?’

‘Not…this. But what you’re thinking. Forget it. This isn’t going to be you giving me what I want, and not enjoying it yourself. If you don’t want it as well, I’m leaving right now.’

That’s not really the issue, but he wants to know what the guy’s going to try next.

‘You can see I want it. And I said you could touch me. What’s going on, Javert?’

‘What you say and what you actually let happen are different things when it suits you. So listen to me, OK?’

He doesn’t give himself time to think, he just takes gentle hold of Valjean’s prick and runs his fingers down the shaft.‘If I’m getting off, so are you. You deserve it just as much. More, even, much more. So just…fuck’s sake Valjean, just let me show you, OK?’

‘Show me?’

‘Yeah, just…’

He doesn’t know how to finish that, but if the words aren’t there then the emotion is. He’s been living with it for so long, it’s part of him. He presses his lips to Valjean’s, trying to be soft but not quite making it; he rubs his cock, and walks them backwards under the spray. He’s never been good at talking about anything like this, and never had the opportunity to try actions before. But he’s pretty damn sure that if he’s allowed, he can prove how much he wants this man.

‘-I want to make you enjoy it.’

He murmurs it against his lips, and again Valjean goes still under his touch.

‘Not make. You know what I mean. We can do whatever you want, I don’t mind, but it’s not going to be you doing all the work.’

Valjean doesn’t say anything, and his face is carefully blank. Javert watches from a few inches distance, and when there’s no response, does the only thing he can think of. He picks up the sponge and wets it, pours some gel on, squeezes until it’s dripping with foam. And without asking permission, presses it to Valjean’s sternum in the valley between his pecs, holds it there until soap is sliding down his chest and over the ripples of abs. They both just look at it, for long enough that Javert starts to feel a bit stupid. But he swallows that down because he has wanted to touch so badly, and here it is. And Valjean’s not stopping him. He just looks a bit puzzled. A bit lost.

‘Let me.’

Valjean raises his head. The moment drags on, but then he nods. He seems to be shrinking a touch, pulling into himself, so Javert kisses him as lightly as he was kissed out there by the weights, and pushes the sponge up to his neck, rubs it in small, soft circles along the line of one buffed shoulder.

‘That day in your bedroom. I should’ve-‘

‘Don’t.’

He stops, mouth and hand both. But this time it's Valjean that kisses. It tastes of the water cascading onto their heads; warm, close, slightly unreal.

‘If you had, it would’ve made everything worse. I wanted you to, but I’m glad you didn’t. Let’s just make this be something new.’

It’s a good idea. But it’s hard to think, because Valjean’s hands are on his hips and everything’s warm, and he’s getting hard again. The spray misting his back is cool, and the twist in his gut is a re-lit firework, its wick flaring back to life. Valjean is solid under his fingers, but the soap makes him slippery, hard to grip. Javert tosses the sponge onto the bench and gives in to indulgence; for the first time since this started, he runs his hands freely over Valjean’s body, pushing foam in great circles all over his chest, under his arms, over his ribs. But it’s not quite right, because the water washes it away too quickly.

‘What’s wrong?’

Valjean looks amused, like an indulgent parent watching a child making a mess. Also a bit red around the ears, but the embarrassment seems to be in a good way. And through the foam that made it low enough, it’s clear he’s not turned off by being played with.

‘Water.’

He turns it off. Valjean raises his eyebrows, but Javert’s determined now. He soaps up the sponge until it’s full, then sits down and starts on his abs. It only takes seconds to get them covered and he takes over with his hands again, running one finger in tiny circles across each line of muscle as though he plans to clean all of him like that, as thorough and conscientious as Javert ever is. But it’s purely for his own gratification; he slicks the foam away with the hand that follows, and his dick stands up harder with each pass of his hand over that perfect form, until by the time he reaches the lowest two he’s panting quietly, and kissing his stomach, and moaning when one of Valjean’s hands come to touch his hair.

‘I guess you like muscles, huh?’

‘I like yours.’

He wants to touch himself. He wants to just sit here and gaze on him, and then jerk off with one hand and stroke Valjean with the other. He looks up instead, Valjean’s fingers curling gently around one of his ears. He watches his face as he runs soapy fingers up his cock, eases the foreskin up so he can wash underneath it, gives the lightest of light massages to the ridge running to the underside. Valjean’s jaw sets, and he lets out a breath when Javert strips the bubbles off the crown and puts his lips to it, never breaking eye contact.

‘I want you to fuck me.’

The fingers in his hair stop playing. Valjean’s expression turns rueful and he touches his jaw instead, draws a finger along the lips about to suck his cock.

‘Not in a shower. Not the first time.’

‘But sometime. Soon. Tonight.’

‘Soon. OK? But in bed. The first time.’

Good enough. Javert opens his lips just enough that they form a small O on the tip of his cock, and sucks a little. Lets his tongue flick against it, and watches to see if Valjean likes it. Judging by the look that’s almost painful, he’d guess yes.

‘Then I want you to come in my mouth.’

Come, and erase the last time. Let this be new. Valjean hesitates, so Javert sucks a bit more, pressing his tongue to the slit and drawing it off fast.

‘Let me.’

‘…OK. But-‘

‘No but.’

He sits straight and drips more soap onto Valjean’s legs. If he puts his hand flat at the top of his thigh and draws it along the muscle, it takes to the count of six to reach the twin bumps just above his kneecap. It’s a perfect plain of smooth tension, in glorious contrast to the softness of his inner thigh. The inside is still muscled, but not so hard. Javert puts his mouth on it. He sucks a pink mark into the skin just because he can, not hard enough to hurt. He puts Valjean’s balls in his palm and plays until they’re swollen and fat, making foam icicles off the bottom of them just for the hell of it, making Valjean stand there with his legs apart and take the pleasure he’s given. He kisses his cock when he feels like it, silently crowing with triumph at the first taste of salt on his tongue. Every time he looks up, Valjean is watching everything, a strange mix of trepidation and desire on his face like he can’t decide which to go with. It’s only when Javert’s slippery fingers venture a little too far back does he take his wrist, and say, ‘not there. I’ll wash there.’

Javert nods at once, drops away, rakes his fingernails lightly down the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. His hands move down to massage thick calves as he puts Valjean’s cock on his tongue and starts to suck properly. There’s the tiniest of grips in his hair as he does; he knows the man won’t make a sound but it’s good to know he’s OK with it. He tries not to dream of both hands holding fistfuls of the stuff, forcing him to take it deeper, fucking his mouth. Another time; a dream for a different place.

‘Javert, hold on….wait, Javert.’

He stops, but doesn’t release his prize. Just looks up, and makes Valjean look at his dick getting sucked. The man looks surprised, but then smiles and runs a thumb along his cheekbone.

‘I don’t want to come yet.’

Javert makes a noise, and frowns, and starts to suck again. Valjean huffs a laugh that almost, almost, turns into a gasp, and puts both his hands on Javert’s jaw, holding his face still.

‘No,’ he says, in a mock-stern voice, only it’s really easy to imagine it’s real. Something inside rears up and snaps sharp teeth of desire, and he has to suck again to hide the moan that would give him away.

‘Not yet. Don’t I get to get you clean?’

He still doesn’t let go. Yeah, he wants Valjean to touch him, but being touched isn’t as good as getting to do it. The touch he wants is less hands, more full body-to-body.

‘Come on.’ Valjean keeps one hand on his jaw, and the other pulls back through his hair. ‘I promise I’m not avoiding it. You can finish me however you want, just let me return the favour.’

Javert, reluctantly, lets him go. He sits back, his chest rising fast, his arousal on plain display. Valjean smiles, and kisses his lips, and flicks the water back on so the soap runs off him, revealing his own perfection like a statue that’s been wrapped for years and only now getting brought into the light. A few seconds and he’s there in shining glory, and Javert makes a small noise and, helpless, starts touching himself. Just a slow tug, a tease at the head. Valjean turns under the deluge, shaking his hair out, and Javert has to hold his balls tight to halt the urge to finish himself. He can taste salt on his tongue, feel the satisfying girth on the inside of his lips. He wants to make the man lie flat, and pleasure him with his tongue until he’s out of his mind. He wants to make him make a noise, any noise at all.

Valjean turns, sees what’s happening, and shakes his head. He bends to kiss him again, but also takes his hands away. Javert wants to pout like a petulant child, but then Valjean pushes his legs apart a way further and, lips still close to his, says, ‘have you ever had a blowjob, Javert?’ and then it’s hard to breathe. His feels his eyes go wide, and another stab of arousal slices through his gut.

‘You know I haven’t.’

‘Never? Not even when you were mad at me?’

‘No.’

Full disclosure seems important.

‘I tried, but it didn’t…no, never.’

No questions from Valjean. He kisses him once more, and sinks to his knees on the shower floor. Javert needs to stop him, but his cock is so clearly straining he can’t pretend he doesn’t want it. It’s only at the last second, when Valjean’s got his mouth open and his tongue about to lick, does Javert put his hand on his shoulder.

‘Don’t. You can’t.’

‘I bet you anything I can.’

‘But-‘

‘But nothing. Hush now.’

Javert closes his mouth. Valjean opens his and starts to play, and there are no thoughts for quite a while after that.

 

*

 

It’s always touching when Javert gets thoughtful. It makes him deserve this and, Valjean thinks drily, as he draws a moan with a few practiced flicks of his tongue, he’s under no illusions about his skill at sucking cock. He was taught well. Forced to learn well. Whichever.

He’s surprised the guy caught him out on avoiding orgasm too. He hadn’t been fully aware he was doing that, he just knew it felt weird to think all this abstinence might actually be coming to an end. He’ll probably feel less guilty about all this in the morning if he doesn’t get off tonight, but it’s clear that’s going to cause an issue with Javert. And he doesn’t want that. He wants to take him to bed and thoroughly deflower him, and then make pancakes in the morning and read a newspaper like normal people…wait no, people probably don’t read newspapers together anymore. Read the iPad app, or something. Whatever. _Normal_ things.

He twists his lips and pushes his tongue down the shaft instead of up; Javert cries out and grips his shoulder, leaking precome into his mouth already. He’s so _eager_ , like a teenager who can’t control it, and it shouldn’t be attractive but it really, really is. Because it’s normal, isn’t it? When you like someone, and just want them all over you. Javert’s like that. _He’s_ like that, just with some pretty big qualifications. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t _wanted_ to sleep with Javert.

He pulls off with a smack, swipes a milky bead from the tip, sucks kisses down the shaft. Javert sags in the respite but still makes noise, almost whimpers at every new pressure. He’s going to be out of control when they actually have sex. The neighbours will probably complain. But Valjean can’t lie, the idea of having Javert under him, yelling in pleasure like he’s obviously going to…yeah, that gets him hot. Yeah, he wants to make him lose it like that.

‘More.’

Javert’s hand taps his shoulder, light but greedy. Valjean feels a pathetic rush of warmth, places half an inch of wet, soft tongue on the underside, cradles his fat, dripping, fuck-me dick, and lets the sensation do the work. Javert moves, impatient; then his eyes goes wide and he groans, canting his hips to make tiny rocking motions, his hand gripping the edge of the bench. Valjean lets him enjoy it for a moment, then takes it away.

‘Where’s the sponge?’

A feeble motion to his left. Valjean laughs quietly, takes it and starts from the bottom; feet, shins, knees, thighs, every inch he can reach thoroughly soaped and washed clean. Javert sits without moving or helping, watching him, waiting, only moving when a foamy hand grips his shaft and starts to pump it clean. Then he holds Valjean’s wrist to guide the pace, crunches up in pleasure, lets him wash his shoulders and back with his free hand. Valjean realises he was at least partly wrong, back at Christmas. He’d thought it was dangerous then, because the guy was so impressionable. But it looks like he might always be that way, at least when he’s shown some affection. The image of a deferential Javert springs to mind, and he wants to laugh again. No, that’ll never happen.

‘Valjean, more. Please. C’mon, I’m-‘

He kisses him to shut him up. Not the sweet, barely-there touches of earlier, but a proper, deep, full-of-want kiss, with tongues tangling and Javert pushed back against the wall. Yeah, he wants him, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for the guy to lose his virginity in the shower. But then he soaps his stomach and ribs, and feels the bumps along his side that are far too obvious, and the way Javert wraps his arms around his neck to keep him close. No, it wouldn’t be fair. Javert wants too much. He’ll let literally anything happen to him right now.

‘Stand up so I can do your back properly.’

’Valjean-‘

‘Nearly done, I promise. C’mon.’

A reluctant slouch to standing. And Valjean wasn’t expecting him to brace his arms on the wall, and stand like a man about to arrested. He is, he realises through a dull roar in his ears, offering himself. He probably doesn’t even realise it. But with legs spread like that…

He swallows, and rubs him clean along the shoulders, down his back, around each protruding shoulder blade. He stops over the scar around one, tracing it first with his sponge, then with his finger, and when the water has done its work, his tongue. He kisses along the length of it, teases the jagged bottom, slides a soapy hand over his hip to jerk him off gently.

‘How’d you get this, Javert?’

Javert turns his head, vacant, barely aware of the question. ‘Fuck me,’ he says, and Valjean moves mouth-first this time, kissing down his spine and licking the curve of his buttocks, making him cry out and thump his fist on the wall. ‘Valjean, come _on_.’

He’s not going to fuck him. He does, very carefully, slide the sponge between his cheeks and draw it over his asshole; he does drop it right after, and repeat it with his fingers. Javert keens and pushes back, presenting himself on reflex, and Valjean is left to marvel again at just how desperate he is. Whether he’d be this way with any guy, or just any guy who took care with him. Or if it’s truly just him.

‘Do it. Valjean. Please.’

His finger is pressed lightly to his hole. Valjean bites his lip and strokes over it, making Javert twist and writhe, trying to get more. It doesn’t feel wrong. He wants to make him happy. Still, this is not what he had in mind for a first penetration the man. If that’s what it is. Maybe he fucks himself all the time. The sudden visual _that_ thought brings makes his head swim, and he has to back off before he does something they might regret.

‘Soon.’

Valjean stands up and presses along his back, wraps both arms around him from behind. Javert sags in his grip, his skin warm and tacky, bubbles clinging to the hair at his nape. Valjean kisses him under the ear, because he can. ‘Later. I promise. In bed, where I can make it good. For now…’

He circles a fingertip around the head of Javert’s leaking prick, and sucks in a breath when he moans like an animal in pain. In bare seconds the guy is jerking into his fist, practically fucking it but trying to keep as much of his back against Valjean’s chest as he can. It comes to him like a lightbulb going off; of course the guy’s desperate. He’s twenty-three, and wants a body against him. All the times they’ve messed with this before has had one or both of them in a compromised state. But not this time, and at least this is easy to fix.

‘Wait, wait. Calm down. You trust me?’

Javert’s head bobs up and down like it’s on a spring. Valjean stifles a chuckle, and leans up close to his ear.

‘Put your palms on the wall. No, I’m not fucking you, but…just bend a bit…’

He bends a bit too much, but Valjean guides him up. His own cock ends up tucked tight at the crux of Javert’s thighs, something he tries hard not to focus on. He thinks about folding all up Javert’s back instead, using his weight to hold him steady, keep him up, give him something to push against. And the guy is dropping moans from that alone, his head down, water dripping off his hair and lips. As an afterthought, Valjean squeezes the sponge out between them and then everything is slippery, warm, and he makes sure his palm and fingers are firm around Javert’s cock.

‘You ready?’ He murmurs it into his neck, feeling his own cock prodding at Javert’s balls.

‘I want you to come like this. OK? Don’t hold back.’

An inhuman noise comes out of the man, and he turns his head as best he can.

‘Just put it in. It’s right there.’

‘No. Like this. C’mon.’

He slides his fingers down the thick shaft, and feels it surge a little in his hand. It’s so ready to go, and Valjean can’t believe how good it feels, to just have this be _OK_. Javert bucks up against him, slides up and down his chest, pushes his butt back to his groin. Valjean remembers what it feels like to be inside someone, and grips harder, too hard because Javert cries out, but when he says ‘sorry,’ he’s answered with a shaking head and a thrust that can only be asking for more. He takes his balls in one hand and holds them firm, jerks him off like he means it, feels him straining underneath him as they buck and write in the water, too slippery to get any decent friction but letting skin sing together until Javert’s bent almost in half and Valjean’s curled over him, working him hard, swearing inside as his cock rubs against the inside of Javert’s thigh and threatens to soak behind his balls if this keeps up. But it doesn’t, because as soon as Valjean lets go of his balls and plays with the tip instead, all the muscles of Javert’s back spring together, arch up; he cries out and shoots over the wall, his whole body coming together to get it out of him. Valjean watches the perfect arch of his back with something like awe, so tempted to just slip inside him, so aware how easy it would be. But still not fair, so he waits, panting silently, until Javert slips out of his arms and down to the bench. For the longest time he just sits there, water streaming down his face, his chest, cleaning the evidence away. He looks, as always, _so_ young. Valjean smiles to himself, takes advantage of his helplessness to pick up the shampoo, and squeeze some into his palm.

‘Stay still,’ he says quietly and Javert nods, spent, the evidence of his pleasure slipping off the wall and down the drain.

 

 

*

 

Javert’s spent a lot of time wondering what it would feel like to have Valjean straining against his back. The answer is ‘sublime’, or some equally over the top word. Whatever it is, it’s something that has to happen again _really fucking quickly,_ and it has to be the real deal next time. He can’t do without it anymore. He needs him. He would, at this minute, happily spend the rest of his life underneath Jean Valjean.

He opens his eyes only when Valjean lifts his head off the wall, and massages shampoo into his crown with all the care of a parent with its kid. It’s too soft really, too weird, but too nice to put an end to. The nerve endings in his scalp stand up and then ease away, melting into the general wash of pleasure making up his body right now.

Valjean says nothing. Javert makes the effort to lean forward so the man can stroke up from his nape, giving the delicious thrill of hair going the wrong way only to be smoothed back a second later. Strong fingers press gently, making tiny circles, easing him down from his high. He rests his forehead against Valjean’s hip, and curls his hands loosely behind his knees. For long, long minutes, this is what they are; just touch, and care, and together.

It won’t last. In this shower, or in life. Javert’s already planning to get his mouth filled as soon as he can move, and as for the other, something will come up in a day or two to ruin it. But this is what it is right now, and it’s perfect. He lets it run a minute more, until the cloying treacle of affection has soothed down to a manageable level, under his skin and not radiating out of him like a lightbulb. He sits on it, draws his hand up Valjean’s thigh and, almost dreamlike, eases his prick sideways and into his mouth.

He doesn’t bother looking up, or opening his eyes, or taking his forehead far away from his body. He just pops his jaw to take the girth of him, flattens his tongue to get it as deep as he can. There’s nothing clever about this, nothing practised or skilled. He just closes his mouth around it and pushes until he can barely breathe, and then sucks, and sucks, and sucks. He doesn’t move up and down, or play; his tongue makes a bed for the length to move on, and he arches it up to pleasure the head as best he can. He holds Valjean’s ass, would take him deeper if he could, would get him to pump and fuck his throat if he could. But Valjean just stands still, rigid, his fingers carding desperately through Javert’s hair. Time doesn’t matter, but it still seems forever that they’re locked in place, Javert squeezing him with his whole mouth like his life depends on it; Valjean never makes a sound but his thigh muscles are trembling, a hand coming to rest on his head, the other on his nape. And it’s good like that, it’s secure, Javert knows he’s not going anywhere until this is finished.

He moans, and the vibration causes a tiny push of hips. He does it again, and blunt nails push into his skin; he grips Valjean’s ass harder, pulls him in, moans and chokes a bit, pulls back, then takes him deep again. And at some point he realises that Valjean is tilting, leaning a hand onto the wall to keep himself upright and steady, and finally, _finally_ thrusting his hips just a little. Javert tastes shampoo and salt, and keeps having to swallow the shower water running into his mouth, but every time he does he feels Valjean’s body quake. And eventually, he hears,

‘Gotta sit. Sorry, gotta-‘

He wants him to come. But he pulls off, and slides to his knees, looking up with eyes that brook no argument. Valjean’s face falls into something helpless and he sits heavily – Javert realises, as he swivels around and pushes the man’s legs apart – that he’s never see Valjean so unguarded. Never so unburdened.

‘Javert-‘

‘Shush.’

He takes him again, working up and down for a few minutes this time, until he feels Valjean’s ass start to rise off the seat. Then he takes one of the man’s hands and puts it firmly on the top of his head. There’s a hesitation, but it grips eventually, and Javert moans, and sucks on him until he’s writhing and bucking; until all he can see in his mind’s eye is Jean Valjean sitting with his legs spread, getting his prick serviced and loving it. It’ll keep him jerking off for months, if he still has to do that himself any more.

‘Javert.’

He taps the bench in lieu of saying _shut up_ , and draws back to lick heavily at the tip. Valjean has a fist in his mouth, his eyes screwed up. Javert can’t help a grin, and a wiggle of his tongue in the slit.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he says, and opens just quick enough to catch the first stream over his lips and tongue; groans deeply as Valjean arches and fills his mouth, rubbing his hair with both hands, twisting under his grip and obviously fighting the urge to moan. Javert swallows him down, everything inside crowing with triumph, his mind starting to fill with all the ways he’s going to make this man come. Every day, for as long as he’ll let him.

When he sags, Javert still holds him firm between his lips. He licks gently now, cleaning him like a cat but unwilling to let him out of his mouth. Only when Valjean eases him away does he let go, but still nuzzles at him, squeezing foam into his hand to stroke him back to cleanliness. He’s gentle, a single fingertip running over the swollen ridges, the loosening foreskin, the head slowly shrinking back. Only when he’s soft does he put it down and sit back on his heels, and take in the state of Valjean.

He sits dishevelled, like a boxer after a fight. Broad shoulders limp, pecs overhanging folded abs, still defined in their slouch. Thick thighs spread open, his cock now sleeping a little curled to the left. He really is beautiful. Javert smiles, and kisses the fingers that rise wearily to his lips.

‘We’re prunes.’

‘Don’t care.’

He reaches up to turn the water off, and kisses Valjean on the way back. If the man minds his own taste, he doesn’t say anything. He just holds Javert’s head with one hand, and lets it linger.

‘Bed, please.’

Valjean smiles, and taps him on the cheek with a loose finger.

‘Tonight. We’ll recharge properly.’

‘But you promise?’

‘…yeah. OK, Javert. Tonight.’

Good enough. He’ll take a promise from Jean Valjean any day of the week.

 

*

 

Valjean watches him go to fetch towels, sated and…happy, he thinks. Close to it, anyway. Because yeah, it can be tonight. And it’ll be good. And maybe in the morning he’ll make pancakes, and they can do whatever it is normal people do.

It won’t last. He knows that, and hopes to God Javert does too. But for the time being, they can pretend, and in the meantime…well, it is what it is. And it’s pretty good so far.

 


End file.
